_Scene—The interior of a log hut. The walls are draped with rare skins
and decorated with horns and heads. The furniture is covered with
skins. There are interesting collections of curios, dried grasses
and ferns; and everywhere freshly gathered asters in horn mugs. The
whole presents a most artistic appearance. Emma sits on a couch
beside a cradle, crooning a slumber song to the infant in her arms.
Beside her sits Eginhardt, attaching feathers to his arrows.
Through the door, centre back, fruit trees are seen. Six years have
greatly changed Emma and Eginhardt. The latter has a long black
beard; both are tanned and seem stouter._
_Emma._
Little one, close fast thine eyes,
Thy guardian angel near thee flies;
Close thy rosebud-mouth, thine ears
To all want and needless fears.
Little one, lie still and rest,
Mother holds thee at her breast,
Like a flower by lover plucked,
Kissed and in maid's kerchief tucked.
Little one, thou'rt sweeter far
Than any petal-textured star,
Sweeter than a lover's gift;
Thou art joy that God hath whiffed.
Little one, keep pure and true,
Let no taint thy heart bedew.
Mother's prayer is spent for thee,
Now and through eternity.
Little one, if dreams should come,
Hurt, or aught that's troublesome,
Put thy trust in God above
As now thou lean'st on mother-love.
Little one, thy cradle's here,
Mother stays and watches near.
Swansdown-pillowed, slumber long,
Mother ends her drowsy song.
[_Emma gently rocks the cradle in which she has laid the
sleeping child._]
_Emma._ O Eginhardt, he's fast asleep, nought will
Disturb. I never knew so good a child.
He's like his father, his dumpy nose upturned;
A smile that lingers through his sleep as though
His spirit babbled angel-talk.
_Eginhardt._ Thou may'st
Revile my nose, in troth it doth admit
Plebeian birth; but what of that? when thou,
Who own'st the straightest nose in Christendom,
Art well content with it. As for my smile,
I must demur, has it not character,
When thou art cause? and yet thou liken'st it
To that which flushes this wee bit of soft Inanity.
_Emma._ Away with thee, rude scoffer.
Nay, look again. Admire as we have done
These hundred times, the long, black silky lashes,
That fringe so restfully; a modish damsel
Would give her soul for such possession. Ay
'Tis true the smile resembles thine, the same
Calm confidence, a hint of humour, yes,
A tryst with higher things that leaves me far
Behind. Now David's smile is like the King,
My Father's, a flash of wit or merriment
Or tender love, or pleased concern that fades
As graver thoughts come uppermost. 'Tis strange
Of late my Father's face has haunted me.
It bears a wistful look. Dost think he grieves
For us?
_Eginhardt._ Six years should act as poppy balm,
Besides his Jove-like mind has such to grapple,
That private woes are soon reduced to pricks,
Scarce felt and then forgotten. If thou had'st kept
The magic ring—but that is long ago.
I see it now upon the frozen pond.
I could not sleep that night and so stole forth—
A walk might ease my pain. Unrealized
The hunting-lodge was reached and I had thrown
The ring. It glittered 'neath the moon, then I
Would have it back; but suddenly, a crack;
It disappeared, black water bubbled—my dream
Seemed over.
_Emma._ To begin! dear Eginhardt!
If we, through magic, had secured the king's
Affection; courtly pomp, its undercurrents
Of jealousy and constant bickerings
Had swallowed us and what we hold most dear,
Our liberty and close companionship.
How free we are! how happy! this wondrous home
With nought superfluous to hamper; but just
Enough for daily needs—a little more
To please one's sense of beauty, and all has grown
With married life. There's not a skin that decks
Those walls; but 'tis the fruit of hardy chase,
No graceful antler, but thou hast bent the bow;
Each has its story. As for curios,
Have I not helped discover them? and David
Has rooted well. The mountain-dwarfs must scatter
Rarities to satisfy the lad,
To hear his piping notes of childish triumph,
His chubby hand tight-clutching some gay stone,
Or weathered fossil, spotted egg, or fern,
Or tufted grass for drying, or rusty lichen;
Each a worthwhile specimen. 'Tis strange
That blindfold avarice should grope in towns,
While forests are thus generous with gifts.
_Eginhardt._ True, true, the forest is man's natural home,
And yet at times ambition stirs. Was I
Not once great Charles' youngest councillor?
Have I not planned his palaces? laid out
His gardens? supervised his public works?
The ever-famed basilica; have I
Not felt his love? He called me foster-son.
[_He drops his head in his hands._]
_Emma._ Weep not, dear Eginhardt, we are content.
_Eginhardt._ Ay wife, we are content and happiness
Doth flood; still far beneath strange eddies surge,
Nay rather purl; but there they are—a vague
Uneasiness—
_Emma._ Thou frighten'st me.
_Eginhardt._ Then lay
Thy cheek 'gainst mine and smile, the mood has passed.
But let us talk of him whose towering genius
Projects such sparks that lesser minds are fired,
A galaxy illumes the sky, great deeds
Are done!—and we stay trifling here. The mood
I said had passed—and we are quite content.
But still we'll talk of him, our Charles, whose fame
Will ring throughout the centuries while we,
Dear Emma, are forgot or sunk to myth.
His age we've known, when fires are somewhat dimmed,
What must his ardent youth have been! surpassing
Hannibal, yea Caesar, in art of war;
Manoeuvering, until a tiny force,
Thrown here and there, has downed a mighty host.
Persistency through good, through evil fortune,
Till restive Europe feels the curb of peace,
Acknowledging its blessing. The Saxon idol
Has crumbled, the Arab-crescent stays its distance;
The Northman dares not venture. One man, one mind
Accomplishing so much! and now he seeks
To cleanse the Church, to make a roadway 'mid
The brambles of divergent laws, to wake
A nation's pride, reviving tales, rude songs
Of hero-ancestry. With pause, he would
Himself have ventured more than playful verse.
There is that vibrant hymn he wrote, asserting
The Holy Ghost comes from the Son as Father.
In truth he hath a poet's soul and that
Maybe explains! An autocrat and yet
The servant of his people; fathoming
Their needs, to satisfy or wisely guide.
_Emma._ Some say he hath worked miracles, thou know'st
The story of the flowers.
_Eginhardt._ Ay, but let
It fall again from thy sweet lips.
_Emma._ The King,
My Father, had shamed the Saracen; but O
At what a cost! Archbishop Turpin, brave Roland,
And many another paladin returned
No more. O war, it is a ghastly thing!
The victor suffers as the vanquished, though pride
May not acknowledge it. Our hardy troops,
Who struggled past the Pyrenees, brought plague,
That Southern ill. It spread through Rhenish towns,
Death stalked from house to house, all nostrums failed.
The learned Doctors could but shake their heads,
Fear seized each heart—and then man turned to God.
He fasted, prayed and promised. The King, my Father,
Nor slept, nor eat, imploring constantly,
Until celestial voices spoke: "The Lord
Hath heard thy prayer. The meadow holds reply;
Ride forth, His name upon thy lips, then string
Thy bow and upward shoot." The King arose,
Nor felt the chilling dawn, a silent figure,
Upon his great black charger, he passed the gate;
His lips were mumbling prayer and so he went.
The open reached, they say, a wondrous light
Passed o'er his face as looking heavenward,
He sprung the bow. High winged the shaft as though
To pierce the firmament, then wavering fell,
And lo its blunted end had crushed the stem
Of that small golden flower, whose thistle-bloom
Has since been called "carlina," bearing thus
The King, my Father's name to blazon through
The centuries how God lent heed to prayer.
The arrow-head was damped with juice, so found
The remedy. Again was laughter heard,
As eager children gathered plants; a flush
Returned to pallid cheeks, the light of hope
To sunken eyes. And so the plague was stayed
And death slunk off disconsolate.—But where's
Our David? and this his special tale, why at
This point he likes to thrust his wooden sword
As though to stab a threatening foe. Ay youth
Can combat death; but what of age?
_Eginhardt._ Talk'st thou
Of age? whose cheeks are soft and round. I will
Admit thou hast enough of woman's wisdom
To delve some crisscross lines or tiny crows-feet.
But none I see, not one wee crease and that
Reflects some credit on thy husband's care;
Six years! and lovers still! was ever known
Such foolish pair. [_He kisses her._]
_Emma._ Was ever? Eginhardt.
But not of self I thought, a father's face!
That may have deeper lines because of us.
Ah, 'tis ever so, that face obtrudes—
But where has David gone? I now remember,
He asked to gather acorns—and oaks are near
The zigzag path that leads—that leads beyond
The realms of happiness, O let us search
And quickly, if harm should come—
_David._ [_Without._] Ting, tang!
_Emma._ His voice,
Thank God, his clear shrill treble.
[_Enter David._]
O David, thou
Hast frightened me!
_David._ [_Twirling the sword._] That's nought but play-pretence;
But now thy hair shall stand on end, see what
I brandish here.
_Emma._ My son, pray heed, take care!
A real sword! and one of consequence?
It is, it is—
_David._ A giant's sword! O Mother!
Thy son's a dauntless hero, as those thou sing'st
About.
_Eginhardt._ A naughty vagabond, more like,
Where hast thou been? Give me the sword.
_David._ [_Handing the sword to Emma._] Nay, nay!
'Tis mother's; but I've outrun the prisoner,
An honest giant, although he killed our stag.
Hi there! Goliath!
[_Enter Charles, who stoops to pass the
doorway. He does not recognize his hosts._]
See Mother the captive I
Have taken. Now proudly smile and call me hero.
_Charles._ This door was never built for captive giants
But gladly I'll acknowledge, dame, thou hast
A stalwart hero! a splendid boy!
_David._ [_Clapping his hands and dancing round._] There! there!
I said as much, a hero! a hero! a hero!
_Emma._
[_Who, with Eginhardt, recognizes Charles, laying
her hand on her heart as though to still its throbbings._]
Quiet boy! let others sing thy praise.
I welcome you, my Lord, your face, this weapon
Proclaim nobility; we are unused
To strangers here. Forgive a trembling voice.
_Charles._ [_Looking round._] But not a peasant's voice, I swear, and
this
No peasant's hovel: such skins, so well arranged,
Such forest wealth would grace our hunting lodge.
I've never seen a room so strangely decked,
Nor one that suits me better. If magic's here,
Then let it be, I'm well content.
[_He sits by the central table._]
_David._ Without
Thy sword, Goliath?
_Charles._ [_Receiving his sword._] Ay, without my sword,
And yet I'd handle it. Joyeuse! thy title
Becomes thee well to-day. Dear blade; a sweet
Adventure has wiped thee clean. Thy name is freed
From irony. Joyeuse! Joyeuse! Joyeuse—
A happy languor steals.
_David._ O Mother, Goliath
Seems quite at home. His head is nodding sleep;
'Tis well I did not sever it. A tame,
Old giant for playmate, how the boys in tales
Would envy me! We'll feed and treat him well.
O Mother! Father! say that I may keep
My prisoner.
_Emma._ Indeed my son thou mayst.
If there be strength in human love, 'twill hold
Him close. [_David jumps delight._] But softly boy, thou must be more
Polite, more circumspect. O Eginhardt!
He looks so peaceful. Think you that mood will change,
That passion will distort his brow when he
Discovers?
_Eginhardt._ He has not realized and yet
Has felt thy soothing presence. O 'twould be
Impossible to meet thy tender gaze
And then to break from it. Ay love will hold
Him here; but let the truth come leaking out,
Lest joy disturb his age.
_Emma._ Thou hast more hope
Than I, who am his daughter.
_David._ The giant's daughter?
_Eginhardt._ Hush David, help bring the dishes, not one word
Until I give consent. [_Addressing Emma._] Hast thou prepared
The venison?
_Emma._ The way he likes it, ay,
Well seasoned, with relish and proper garnishings
That blend with forest wine. I've but to serve.
_Eginhardt._ Then haste thee, Wife, while I make search within
This precious book, "God's City," to find the place
Left off six years ago, when last I read
At meal-time. Ah, 'tis here; a tiny mark
Bears witness, blurred with tears, with frequent handling.
[_While Emma places the venison on the table, David,
who has his eyes on Charles, drops a dish, waking the
latter._]
_Charles._ By all the Saints, a feast! the table set
As at the palace e'en though wood and horn
Replace our silver ware. And venison
That smells like roasted meat, not boiled to shreds
As my dull doctors have prescribed. I smell
An old time flavour. Surely, Dame, thou hast
Not been at court?
_Emma._ My Lord, some years ago
I served as kitchen-wench. The Princess Emma—
_Charles._ Talk not of her—unless thou knowest aught.
_Emma._ My Lord, you come from court; why question then
My ignorance? But see the venison
Awaits, we wish a kind report; we trust
Our cheer will strengthen you.
_Charles._ Then sit ye here
And eat. Consider me a humble guest.
My lad, canst thou say grace?
_David._ Indeed, Sir Giant,
A Latin Ave too.
[_He mumbles an Ave Maria while all cross
themselves and sit down. Emma carves the venison,
Eginhardt opens his book. Charles stares wonderingly
round._]
_Charles._ Such culture so far removed from influence,
In this unknown retreat is surely most
Uncommon, an element of mystery
That suits me well. I feel a living part
Of it—untrammelled, so much at home. Good people!
Ye practise kindly spells, weave on! weave on!
Nor let me wake.
_Eginhardt._ Then taste our venison,
My Lord. [_Addressing Emma._] A goodly helping! whilst I do read
A passage as our custom—once—
[_He reads from Chapter XII. of the Nineteenth Book of
"The City of God."_]
"For joy and peace are desired alike of all men. The
warrior would but conquer: war's aim is nothing but a glorious peace;
what is victory but a suppression of resistants, which being done,
peace follows? So that peace is war's purpose, the scope of all
military discipline, and the limit at which all just contentions level.
All men seek peace by war, but none seek war by peace. For they that
perturb the peace they live in, do it not for hate of it, but to show
their power in alteration of it. They would not disannul it; but they
would have it as they like;"—
_Charles._ "As they like;"—and so they suffer! but that
Is past. O Eginhardt, 'tis thee! thy voice!
Thy gesture! and Emma, my daughter Emma, I know
Thee now. Come let me feel, make certain, my dear,
Dear child, ay, ay; 'tis not a dream. O God
Is good to my old age. My pet, lean here.
These arms have ached for thee. O dearest one,
Why hast thou been so cruel? nor understood
A father's love, when time elapsed, would conquer
A moment's ire.—To hide from me, it was
Not kind, not Emma-like. My child! my child—
_Emma._ Then Father thou dost love me still? but what
Of him who kneels imploringly, yet not
Repenting, for am I not his wife?
_Charles._ If I
Have missed him once, 'twas every day, for six
Long years and is there more to say? The earth
Was combed for him and thee, our agents sent
To foreign courts, to seats of learning; alway
A "no" came back that pierced my heart with stabs
Of pain! 'Tis easier to face the slaps
Of life when punishment is undeserved;
When one can say at least: "'twas not my fault;"
But O the lingering torture, when one's own act
Has brought fell consequence. If only one
Could backwards turn, how different! Emma!
Eginhardt! help kill the memory
Of those six years, make glad the few that stretch
Before me. Ah my children! dear children! dear children!
_David._ Goliath! hast thou forgotten me?
_Charles._ Nay, nay
Brave lad. [_The baby cries._] but hark! a cry.
_Emma._ [_Takes the baby from the cradle._] Our youngest son
Awakes, bids welcome, completes our happy group.
_Charles._ 'Twould test an artist's brush to paint such bliss;
But let me look, a healthy child, well-formed,
Most promising; but not a David! I
Have never seen a finer lad, a braver!
Pray God, court life will keep him so, and that
Reminds there is a court and etiquette
And problems, eternal problems! well, so be!
If duty weighs, good Eginhardt, we'll lean
On younger arms; so take my horn and blow
A lusty blast, we have the heart to work;
And God will aid.
[_Eginhardt blows the horn, while Charles turns to his
venison and Emma quiets the baby. An answering call
comes faint, then louder._]
_Eginhardt._ Run David, run, and point
The way. [_Exit David._] I'll go a step to greet old friends,
Prepare their minds.
[_Exit._]
_Emma._ [_Laying the baby in his cradle._] Hush, hush—
[_She pours some wine for Charles._]
_Charles._ [_Drinking._] Thy health, dear Emma.
_Emma._ [_Pointing to the holy silk that drapes an altar._]
Perhaps this holy silk has helped with thought
Beyond our daily round. See Father, I
Have guarded it—no harm has come to us
In this old pagan grove.
_Charles._ Nor will it come,
While simple faith dwells here. I tell thee, Emma,
We'll build a castle round this shrine-like home,
Protecting it and all that love has reared
Within and here, at times, we'll seek respite.
_Emma._ And laughter too! O Father, those first few nights.
How silently we stole without and emptied
The charcoal-burner's deserted hut; the jewel
We left reward enough for paltry stuff—
The wedding dower of Princess Emma—but hark!
[_After a pause enter Hildebold, Eginhardt, David,
Albert, Ernst and Courtiers._]
_Charles._ What Hildebold! our dear disheveled court,
And old man Ernst and none afraid to venture!
My Lord Archbishop, the Church has proved its strength
To lead through lanes of mystery and soon
My children here will ask its further blessing.
But later, when we are more composed and now
A hunting song to make all seem more real.
_Courtiers._
Ya ho! ya ho! let Frankland ring
With daring deeds, with battles won;
Great Lords submit to Charles, our King,
As stars that fear the rising sun.
Ya ho! ya ho! for Victory!
Now Frankland's voice is heard afar,
It trumpets peace o'er land and sea,
The War God lists and stays his car.
Ya ho! ya ho! for huntsman's horn
Awakes once more the forest glade,
With mirth and joy that put to scorn
The battle scar, the murky blade.
Ya ho! ya ho! the quarry's traced,
Six years of search have ended now,
The fairest doe that ere was chased,
To her we make a lowly bow.
[_The courtiers all make obeisance to Emma._]
_Emma._ And I do thank you, friends; my husband,
The King permitting, will speak for me.
_Charles._ Nay I
Myself will speak. Good people, listen all,
I oft have chided, seeking the City of God
On earth, an Empire as St. Augustine
Once visioned—I have failed—but in this home,
I clearly see the germ.
THE TALL PALMETTO
and
OTHER POEMS
THE TALL PALMETTO
The dense live-oaks were swept with wrath,
The rubber trees swung roots in mire,
A fine-leafed cedar tittered spite,
Magnolias were flushed with ire.
Alone within the garden pale
A tall palmetto gently swayed,
Serenely straight its feathered head
Above all else had skywards strayed,
To catch the first, faint blush of dawn,
To linger long with sunset's glow,
To trace the moon's illusive course
From orange disc to silvery bow.
So strove the palm and was content
To glimpse at times a furtive clue,
To pierce the haze of mystery,
Emerging thence with leaflet new.
And as the leaf, fanlike, unfurled,
Its green was showered with radiance,
Eternal truth had shed fresh light,
Another phaze! another glance.
And so the palm in stature grew,
In lofty thought and vision wide,
Unmindful of a carping world,
Outdistancing the trees beside.
Nor hearkened to their small-leafed tones,
The rustling of close-quartered boughs,
Nor dreamt of murky depths beneath
Whose dark no errant sunbeam ploughs.
An ancient oak, misshapen, knarled,
Whose prideful age man's care had crutched,
Whose groaning branches bent toward earth
Until the barren soil was touched,
Spoke low with mirthless muttering:
"A scrub palmetto! cabbage palm!
A worthless sprout but yesterday
Disdaining us with saucy calm!"
The rubber tree now sputtered back
While dropping rootlets scratched the dirt:
"The palm makes bold to grasp the clouds,
With gauzy forms it seeks to flirt."
The rounded cedar, clipped and dwarfed,
Agreed with snickers scarce-repressed:
"A slender form might tempt the clouds,
But never earthlings verdure dressed."
The richly decked magnolias,
Who boasted cultured lineage
And garden-birth in foreign climes,
Made inward flutterings of rage.
A country yokel! cabbage palm!
To air itself in heaven's blue!
So far above their august heads,
What was this new world coming to?
The slim palmetto gave no sign
And yet at last these murmurings
Had forced attention, drawn its thoughts
From godly height to baser things.
It sought the reason, paused awhile;
Though skies had greyed there pearled some light;
Then flashed the truth, itself could see;
Those other trees had vision slight.
And then the palm began to talk
And told of dawn and afterglow.
How skies touched earth with brilliancy,
It traced the seven-coloured bow.
It spoke of rifts in frothy clouds,
Of silent lakes illumed with stars,
Of earth-mirage in misty air,
Of spirit force that light unbars.
The trees were still and hearkened now;
But shallow cups hold little draught
And soon the weary listeners tired,
Some curled their leaves, while others laughed.
Then beauty spilled and fell to earth
Where tiny flowers sucked up the drops.
No single thought had gone awaste,
From some there came rich harvest crops.
Long afterward, when death had chilled,
A fallen log lay swathed in vine,
Whence sword-like cacti pushed their blades
And orchids peered 'mid tufted pine.
Such beauteous decay still blessed
As once the wishful, dreamy palm
And trees, that erst reviled, made boast
That they had heard its twilight psalm.
And little flowers that humbly trail,
Content to star unseen, unsought,
'Neath grass to spread their milky-way,
Remember what the palm once taught.
Florida,
January, 1922.
CHARLESTON.
I.
An ancient house, thrice tiered its galleries
And sideways placed, its gardens tucked behind
High walls and iron gates, with taste designed,
Whence peeps are caught of palms and mossy trees;
The passion-flamed poinsettia at ease
With quiet pansy bloom, and jonquils lined
In stiff array, and rose that holds enshrined
Man's love, and English ivy trailing these.
Within the stately home such tales unfold
As flowers and weathered brick have writ without:
Adventure, proud success, war's agony,
And now the gentle calm that cloaks the old,
That stills the heart and gives a sense devout;
So, Charleston, thou reveal'st thyself to me.
II.
I've wandered much through Charleston's cobbled streets
And found each corner's turn a fresh delight;
Old churches, with their memories, invite,
Their yards, grave-strewn, suggestive, calm retreats.
A court, with one-time slave annex, completes
The tale of life gone by, while gardens bright
Make known a Southern town; whose homes unite
This land with charm of English country seats.
Gay cavaliers imprint their rank and mirth
And courage proven well; sad [1]Huguenots
Bequeath the virtue tried by terror's reign;
And Charleston folk are proud to trace their birth,
When forefathers such gracious gifts bestow;
Through changing times the days long past remain.
III.
Now hark! those slow-drawled cries: "Fine chucks, pecans!"
"Crabs, crabs!—live crabs!" then, "Cabage, cabagees!"
"Yes ma-am! raw shrimps, yes ma-am." Still further pleas:
"Sweet potats. I-rish´ potats!" "Banans."
And so each passing vendor stays and scans
Some friendly gate, whose ancient hinges wheeze;
There's soft-voiced bargaining 'neath spiky trees;
The turbaned cook and tempter—Africans.
Africans! nay, nay, Americans!
Their comeliness well suits this smiling clime;
Unwilling captives once, now citizens,
Whose hearts hold scarce a trace of savage clans;
If childlike still, so be! the hand of time
Is stretched past legacies to shape and cleanse.
Footnote 1:
_Pronounced as in French._
LAKE GEORGE.
Where cedars taper, there's a lake beyond;
Once visioned from the hill, it beckons me;
Soft-hazed with heat's grey, slumbrous canopy,
Or bright with glittering dust of diamond,
Or calmed when waning day wafts glances fond,
Or freighted with the moon's pale poesy,
Or blown till sobbing wavelets plash the lea,
Or sunk in starless night like fabled pond.
Whate'er thy mood, O dream-kissed, mountain lake;
It lingers still, my inmost self replies;
But where's the song that plumbs the depth of thought?
The lyre has lost its strings, the words forsake.
What Art's so high; but Nature far outvies?
In silent wonderment, God's voice is caught.
THE EVENING STAR.
Beneath a weight of glistening snow each bough was bent,
Ice-glued the crystal cushions took strange form,
Like ghosts of prehistoric ferns whose palour blent
With earth and sky—the aftermath of storm.
The splattering rain had stayed its noisy, windblown course
And now the padding flakes had ceased to come.
A silent world that stilled all passion and remorse,
Heart-throbbings, grief, thoughts dull and burthensome.
And in the shanty's warmth a child lay stretched at rest,
As delicate as winter tracery.
A mother's eyes sought hers in anxious, tender quest,
Then turned with prayerful light toward western sky,
As though to wrest the secret of the universe
From silver drapery and peeps beyond,
As though one added effort would avail to pierce
The cloaking space, that something must respond.
A something e'en more wonderful than branchlets sprayed
In weird fantastic tire 'gainst heaven's deep;
And lo the mystic blush of evening gently rayed,
Wee cloudlets strayed from mist like flocks of sheep.
A wind! or was't a cry? The infant gasped for breath.
Belike soft bleating lambs had wakened her,
Belike the new-born soul was lured toward lanes of death,
The rosy flush had held a messenger.
Ah woe that Mother's heart as close she pressed her child;
Poor quivering nameless thing and O so frail
To penetrate that void—her thoughts grew fierce and wild.
An infant unbaptised, what fears assail?
An erie wind had risen; hark its shrilling cry I
A flickering candle loosed deep shadows round
That emphasized despair and cruel misery;
The night had come, a sullen night that frowned.
And nought remained but burning love for help was far,
Nor remedies; and grief had surged and ebbed.
Again the Mother sought the sky and lo a star
Had forced the clouds; it peered through boughs close-webbed.
A bright and steadfast star that shot its friendly rays.
"O Evening Star," the woman softly sobbed,
"Be sponsor, shed celestial light through trackless haze."
Asudden within her heart the answer throbbed,
Or winds had drifted: "Innocence." She hearkened, yes
"Innocence," the Star had sanctioned it:
Her baby's name! Upon its brow with fond caress
And moistened touch the crossing sign was writ.
And Innocence looked up and smiled and caught the light
That streamed from Evening Star and breathed a sigh
That held content; a faint, sweet sigh that put to flight
A mother's fear, that hushed anxiety.
And so the Babe was named and Innocence still cheered
The lonely hut. A father heard the tale;
How Evening Star had given aid as he had steered
Through her his homeward course, obscured by gale.
And oft at sunset hour the parents sat and watched
Receding day with grave expectancy,
At times through lattice work of branches gaunt and notched,
At times through leafy boughs that swathed the sky.
And when the rosy prelude, orchestra of tint,
Had dimmed; with deep, upwelling thought that strives
And gladsome awe, they faced the Evening Star; whose print
Was on their baby's brow, had marked their lives.
Then Innocence would laugh and stretch her hands and prayer
Half-breathed would rise that happiness remain.
The Evening Star flung beams of trust and through the air
Oft "Innocence" was voiced by winds again.
And Innocence grew tall as passed the years; but frail
At times she seemed, still more when strangers neared.
Ah then she'd seek some ferny haunt, 'mid flowerlets pale
She'd cower, nor knew what dreaded ill she feared.
A lily-maid in homespun garb of softest white,
Her winter coat of silky rabbit skin
Or ermine brought by Indian guide. Her cheeks as white
Unless the flush to evening skies akin.
And so time passed, the nearby settlement became
A village, then a boastful town and road
And searching railway broke the still and helped defame
Sequestered charm that God, through Grace, bestowed.
And Innocence would shrink from noise and close her eyes
When drifting smoke showed progress near, like plant
That's sensitive, that shrivels from man's touch and lies
So piteous with tremulous leaves aslant.
Too weak for woodland stroll, a hammock-couch was strung
'Neath lofty pines and there the young girl lay
And watched a robin's second brood, or chipmunk swung
On sapling bent, or butterflies at play.
One heavy night she stayed without, till Evening Star
Had blown a kiss, then dipped beneath some clouds.
A silence crept, scarce broke by owlet's hoot afar,
While mists arose like ghosts in flaunting shrouds.
A rustling sound! but Innocence had dropped asleep;
Within her hand a dangling lily stem,
Whose cool, white bud unfolded tales that willows weep
Where broad green leaves and starry petals gem,
Where waters pause from maddened rush to catch the calm
That slips through foliage, to rest awhile
In reedy bays as man fatigued might search for calm
'Neath roofing church, immunity from guile.
A rustling sound, a stealthy tread, some broken twigs,
And Guilt peeped low through scrubby briar growth,
Then pushed his ruthless way, nor cared that tender sprigs
Refused to bloom, once heard his muttered oath.
He plucked a burr that pulled his coat askew, then brushed
Aside some pollen dust, some larva-thread;
His outward garb so sleek and glossed, with step that hushed
He fast approached—above dark clouds had spread;
But through the gloom, the lily bud was visible,
The pallid curve of maiden's cheek; one stride,
He stood befogged, a something stayed against his will.
A something childlike, Godlike that defied.
For Innocence had wakened now and unabashed,
Unharmed she gazed at Guilt and pity lay
Within her eyes, a pity blent with pain that lashed,
Till Guilt one blinding moment felt its play.
He sank to earth beseeching what? He scarcely knew.
Respite? was pardon past? He felt a touch
As light as though from highest Heaven a Seraph blew
A kiss that floated downwards bringing much.
And on his heart he pressed the flower that Innocence
Had proferred him, the lily bud that erst
Had lain on waters cool and clear. It brought from thence
Some mirrored truth that Nature's self had nursed.
But Innocence had breathed her last, one gasp, 'twas all,
While Guilt affright, scarce pausing, fled; once more
The Evening Star shone forth, winds sobbed a lingering call,
The parents listened—useless to implore.
The grave awoke with crimson flowers; new birth attained,
The Evening Star had guided faithfully;
For ever since no grovelling soul has been so stained
But moments come that give some chance to free.
'Twas long ago, in our old Province of Quebec,
This tale at evenfall was whispered me.
One spoke—and was that one alive? or but a speck
Of spirit-world, of God's Eternity?
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
errors.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Romance of a Princess, by Amy Redpath Roddick